Maybe today
by lisbei
Summary: Arya Stark of Winterfell is finding it hard to leave the Many-Faced God behind. After the war for the dawn has been won by the living, Arya is going to find that going home again is never that easy, if it's possible at all.
1. Chapter 1

_There is only one thing we say to death: not today. (Syrio Forel)_

* * *

 _The Second Long Night does not last a generation._

 _Once the Night's King and his White Walkers and Wights come through the Wall and fight the armies of the living, Winter conquers the land . . . but only for a short time, compared to the other Long Night, eight thousand years before . . ._

 _During this war, many exiles cease their wandering and return to their ancestral homes – among them, Arya Stark, of Winterfell._

 _Now, the War for the Dawn is over. Winter is coming to an end. All around, people dream of spring. Arya Stark, however, has other dreams._

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 **Chapter 1 _  
_**

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Arya stalked through the corridors of Winterfell, and, wherever she went, death followed.

She killed the maidservants and the cooks, the guards and stable-boys, and her ears were deaf to the screams and pleas of the dying. Jon tried to stop her and she stabbed him through the heart. When Sansa collapsed over his body, sobbing, Arya pulled her sister's head back and cut her throat.

Her hands and clothes were sticky and heavy with blood when she finally reached the last person alive in Winterfell, and pulled her around, only to see her own face.

Arya woke up, a scream dying on her lips; though she was sure that had only been in her nightmare. Else she would have woken the entire household, and no-one was stirring, besides her. Her stomach was churning, but she swallowed her bile with an effort.

Always the same dream, for the last two moons. Was it a prophetic dream? Was she a greenseer, like Bran? But no, the dream never showed her anything beyond what she knew to be true.

Unprompted and unwelcome, a memory rose in her mind.

 _You have stolen from the Many-Faced God._

Well, hadn't she? Killing the Freys, she'd used one of the faces. Once she'd reached Winterfell, and realised that Jon and Sansa needed to be kept safe, it seemed that the killing would never stop. Was the dream a manifestation of resentment? Neither Jon nor Sansa would ever know what she'd done for them.

Or was it something more primal, was it truly the Many-Faced God reaching out to her, demanding that she repay what she'd stolen? Not only had she killed the Freys, she'd dealt death to Petyr Baelish, she'd snuck in the Red Keep and poisoned Queen Cersei, first, and last, of her name. Had it been wrong to kill Ilyn Payne, as well as others involved in her father's murder? Should she have left him for Daenerys to deal with? Had she been stupid to think that the god could be left behind, in Braavos?

Although it had been a dream, it seemed to her that the coppery smell of the blood still surrounded her, suffocating her. She could not stay in bed for another second, and even though she could tell it would not be light for a few hours, got up. A walk would clear her head, she was sure of it.

She reached for her breeches, and remembered the argument she'd had with Sansa over the clothes which were appropriate for a lady of Winterfell to wear. It had taken much arguing, and an intervention from Jon, for her sister to accept that Arya would never be wearing a gown again.

It was strange. When she was a child, she would have screamed at Sansa to mind her own business and then not spoken to her for a week. Instead, she'd almost relished the argument. It had been bittersweet to see the old Sansa for a few seconds; even though she'd never admit it out loud, Arya had missed her. She'd reminded her of Mother.

Arya managed to sneak out of her room and onto the battlements, and climbed down the walls carefully. She immediately felt better at being out of the castle. And guilty for feeling that way. She had been away from Winterfell for too long. It didn't feel like home anymore. Or rather, _she_ didn't feel like Arya anymore.

She took deep breaths of the frigid air as she walked, and wondered, not for the first time, how long this winter would last. It wasn't as cold as it had been when she'd first arrived in Winterfell – before the Night's King and the White Walkers had been defeated. She herself wasn't sure how that had been accomplished, finding herself more concerned with the mortal sphere, even as she asked herself why it was so difficult for people to band together in the face of a seemingly undefeatable monstrous enemy.

Arya walked, and walked, and before she knew it, found herself in Wintertown, which was slowly but surely coming back to life. Not all the buildings had been restored, though, she realised, when she stood in front of an average sized house, with a few good-sized rooms. She didn't remember this place from her childhood – true, it was down a side lane, and was only exposed now because the houses which had hidden it had been burned down in the sack. She wondered who owned it now.

Arya wandered around until a few people started emerging from their houses to feed the livestock, and fetch water. They nodded to her, having grown accustomed to the strange girl who should be a lady, but who preferred wearing men's clothes and had a sword at her hip. As she walked back to Winterfell, an idea grew in her mind. She dismissed it as impossible, and ridiculous, at first. But by the time she reached the walls of the keep, she'd formed a solid plan. Maybe she could do this. Maybe it would be enough.

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	2. Chapter 2

_"_ _Valar morghulis", all men must die, good and evil._

 _Men worship as they will, but at the end of every road stands the Many-Faced God, waiting. (from the Histories and Lore of Westeros)_

* * *

 **Chapter 2**

* * *

"Why do you want to know about that . . . uh . . . house?" Jon was acting very strangely, Arya thought. He was even blushing a little.

She said nothing, and shrugged. After a bit of throat-clearing and hemming and hawing, Jon came out with it. "It was the brothel, Arya."

Arya raised her eyebrows, and Jon's eyes widened.

"I never! I mean, I went there once, but I didn't-"

Arya let him suffer for a few seconds before she smirked. "Don't worry, I won't tell Sansa!"

Of all the strange things that had happened while she was away, her half-brother being declared her cousin and marrying her sister shouldn't have been the strangest. Not with the creatures from Old Nan's stories coming out of the land of always winter and waging war against the living. Still, there it was - Jon and Sansa were married. Nowadays, 'not telling Sansa' meant something completely different than it had done when she was a child – it usually meant that Jon didn't want to trouble Sansa, or worry her unduly.

When she'd arrived at Winterfell, having heard the garbled talk in the taverns, about the bastard of Winterfell being a dragon in disguise and having married the Lady Stark to unite the families, she'd been inclined to disbelieve the entire story. But it had been the first thing Jon and Sansa had told her. And she could see that this was more than a marriage of convenience – there was real affection there. She'd even seen them once, when they thought they were alone, melting into each other's arms like they never wanted to let go. She could see the look in Jon's eyes when he watched Sansa directing the servants, running the household, and the blush that rose in Sansa's cheeks when she noticed his eyes on her.

Jon looked like he was preparing to walk away, and Arya touched his arm.

"Do you know who owns it? Does anyone?"

"I think the brothel-keeper died in the sack of the town, when the Ironborn came. " Jon looked puzzled, and she realized she had to tell him something. He could not be kept in the dark about what she had planned – not now, when he was the King in the North. Would he approve? Would he try to stop her? Would he even know what she was asking? Arya bit her lip, and started to make her case.

"When I was in Braavos, I lived in the temple of the Many-Faced God." Jon looked vaguely interested as he listened – actually, she realised, he had on his 'you have my complete attention' expression, which she was now familiar with, having sat in on him holding court and listening to the smallfolk's grievances. She'd better hurry up, then, she thought. "I'd like to open a temple here . . . a way of giving thanks."

Jon gave her a sideways look. "In a brothel?"

Arya suppressed the eye-roll with difficulty. "It's just a gutted building now, _your grace."_

He gave her a mock glare in reply, and seemed to think it over. She hoped he wasn't too familiar with the Many-Faced God, and his gift. Eventually he nodded. "I'll look into who owns the place – might be they're dead, even." He scratched his head and started to walk away, then turned on his heel. "Do you need any men to help you get the place ready?"

She was shaking her head before he finished speaking. "No. Part of serving the Many-Faced God is doing tasks I would have considered . . . beneath me. Before."

Jon's eyes narrowed, and she realized she'd used the word 'serving'. When had he become so perceptive? When he became King, idiot, she thought. She grasped hurriedly for something to distract him. "But I would like something else – do you know anyone who can carve? In wood?"

Jon nodded. "Ser Davos is very good – and knowing him, he'd much rather work with his hands than what I usually ask him to do."

Arya smiled and thanked him, and ran off to find Ser Davos. Ever since she'd left the House of Black and White she'd been almost unnaturally conscious of her surroundings, so she knew that Jon spent a few seconds staring after her. But there was nothing she could do about that. When it was all finished, she'd try to explain herself, and hoped he'd understand.

"So, you'd like a few carvings of some gods?" Ser Davos looked both thankful and relieved to be given this task. Jon had mentioned that the ex-smuggler wasn't someone who enjoyed the lordly infighting which came with peace-time.

Arya nodded. "I can give you a list, if you'd like." But he was already shaking his head.

"My reading . . . " He sighed. "I've never really learned." He looked off into the distance, his eyes glistening, and Arya bit her lip, realising that she'd brought back an unwelcome memory. He visibly pulled himself together. "But if you tell me which ones you want, I'll get started. Nothing wrong with my memory!"

Arya nodded. There were some which he would know – others, she'd describe. She asked for the frowning Weirwood Face, the Stranger, the Drowned God, and the Weeping Woman of Lys, to start with. He nodded in a bemused fashion, and seemed to be heading off to get the wood already. She let him go, having just remembered that she'd need some kind of stone bowl to put the water in. So she'd have to ask Jon for that, she thought, chewing on her lip. Well, that could wait; first she needed to go back to Wintertown and see if the house was at least structurally sound.

The weeks passed with her going every day to the house she was already, in her head, calling the temple. She swept and scrubbed, directed the men when they came with the huge stoneware bowl Jon had procured for her, and placed the few items of furniture she'd told Jon was usual in a temple to the Many-Faced God. Ser Davos made all the statues she asked for, producing exquisite woodcarvings, and never once asking her why she needed so many representations of death. She ended up being thankful that she'd forgotten the flaming heart of the Lord of Light once she heard about Shireen Baratheon's end, and decided to light a candle for the Red God instead.

Through all the preparations, which were in no way hidden, Sansa, unusually, had not asked her any questions. Had not showed any interest at all, in fact. Once, Arya had asked Jon about it; he'd simply said that after Sansa's experiences in King's Landing, she'd lost all faith in the Seven, and all interest in religion. Not that Sansa's lack of interest really saddened Arya – maybe a little, though. She missed the old Sansa sometimes, who would not have rested until she knew every last detail of Arya's plans.

Though after watching her sister for a few days, Arya realised that there were other things on Sansa's mind. In fact, she chastised herself for not having seen the signs earlier. The way Sansa rarely ate anything in the mornings anymore, the way strong smells were apt to make her go slightly green in the face. The way she sometimes rested her hand on her belly, when she thought no-one was looking. Arya wondered why it hadn't been announced yet, but if Sansa wanted it kept quiet, she wasn't going to be the one to spread the news. Arya knew one thing – Sansa desperately wanted a child. Also, this was good for her and her plans: if Sansa was really pregnant, both she and Jon would be so caught up in each other, they wouldn't care what their sister was up to.

One day, when the weather felt particularly like spring, in spite of the snow still covering the countryside, the house was finished. She'd painted the door in black and white, like she remembered, and she'd found a shift and plain dress which resembled what she'd worn in Braavos. The small figures of the gods were on shelves all around the outer room, surrounding the stone bowl which she'd filled in imitation of the fountain in the House of Black and White. In the inner room, she had other tools, as well as the various powders which she had learned to make in Braavos. The back garden had a well, and it led to the woods beyond, which was convenient for her purposes, too.

Arya had known, for a while, that the local people were gossiping about the house, and its purpose. Not just the local people. What with Winterfell being the home of the King and Queen of the North, there were always lords and ladies, with their many retainers and men-at-arms passing through. So she'd thought that eventually, through word of mouth, her small temple would become well known. But how could she be sure of this? She was sure that building the temple was not enough to do penance – even though the nightmare had diminished in frequency, it had not disappeared. Maybe she'd misunderstood the message, she thought, a few days after there was no more work to be done on the house. What if no-one ever came to the temple?

As she stood, leaning on her broom, lost in thought, she heard the jingling of a horse's tack, and the sound of booted heels striking stone, as someone dismounted outside her door. It had been left ajar, and as it opened further, she looked up, trying to compose her face, trying not to look so eager.

Of all the people she'd thought might visit the temple of the god of death, her cousin Jon, the King in the North, was not one of them.

"What are _you_ doing here?"

"What _is_ this, Arya?"

They spoke at the same time, Jon while waving his arm to indicate the dim lighting and all the small figures of the gods distributed around the walls.

"I just spoke to Sam, and he told me about your Many-faced God! All these gods-"

" – are the same god, and his gift is death." She interrupted him, nodding.

Arya sighed, and sat down heavily in the chair she'd thought to provide for whoever drank from the fountain. So he _hadn't_ known the real purpose of the god, and his gift. She tried to think of a way to tell him the truth, a way which he would accept.

"Jon, who killed Walder Frey?" She could see the puzzlement on his face, which gave way to a look of understanding. Was there horror, too? Was he going to tell her to get out, to go far away from him and his wife?

"Are you saying that _you_ did that? Walder, and his sons?" Jon gave her a sideways look. "Is it too late to thank you?"

Arya realised that she should have trusted Jon from the beginning, and wanted to kick herself for wallowing in self-doubt. Instead, she allowed herself a half-smile, but then sobered up.

"Those aren't the only ones I killed – for revenge, for . . . other reasons." She didn't want to place the burden on him, the idea that she'd done all of it for him and Sansa, so they'd be safe. "Each time I killed, I used what I'd been taught in Braavos." She paused, annoyed at her inability to really explain herself. "I _stole_ from the Many-Faced God. I have to give back what I took, or else, or else-" She bit her lip, unable to continue. Or else I'll end up hurting the people I love, she finished silently.

There was a wrinkle between his brows. Jon had his 'king-face' on again, she thought. She was starting to realise that everyone had to play the game of faces, to a certain degree.

"Arya, the Faceless Men are assassins – are you saying that's what you are?" He sounded like he couldn't believe that his little sister could ever have done such a thing. The Freys were one thing - she knew he understood how badly she'd wanted, needed revenge.

"That's what I was trained to do – but I won't be doing that here. This is a temple – people can come here and worship. And if they want to, they can drink the waters, and find peace."

Arya could see that he wasn't completely convinced, and was just opening her mouth to explain further, when they both heard footsteps coming closer. Arya almost panicked – Jon couldn't be seen here. It would destroy his reputation. She hissed as much in his ear, as she pushed him towards a curtained-off alcove, and he agreed. She managed to compose herself before the man she could hear approaching walked into the room, and was shocked for the second time that day.

Theon Greyjoy looked around him, trying to pretend interest in the statues, it seemed, though it was clear he only had eyes for the fountain. He showed no surprise at seeing her, but didn't try to greet her, or say her name. After a few seconds staring at each other, his eyes widened, in remembrance, it seemed, and he fished a piece of paper out of his pocket.

" _Valar morghulis,_ " he read haltingly, and looked at her with a nervous expression which threatened to break her heart, though she was careful to keep her feelings out of her expression.

What had _happened_ to Theon? Where was the proud and arrogant lordling she remembered? Sansa had told her a little of what she knew, and it had sounded unimaginably horrible. Still, Arya had still hardened her heart, unable to forgive Theon's betrayal. But seeing him like this sent all the memories flooding back, of being carried by him when he wasn't trying to act the fine lord, of sugar-plums stolen from the kitchen and slipped into her sticky hands, of feasts when he sat at the main table and looked at her father with a mixture of emotions that she could only now put a name to. This wasn't about her, and her memories, though. This was not the way to serve the god.

" _Valar dohaeris,_ " she answered, and he looked relieved. His hand shook as he put the scrap of paper back in his pocket.

"What happens now?" Theon asked, even as she wondered what he really wanted, or whether he really knew what people came for when they came here. She gestured towards one of the chairs she'd placed within reach of the fountain, and he sat down in it, looking exhausted.

Arya wanted to ask him why he was here, wanted to challenge him for his past actions, wanted to berate him for betraying Robb, for betraying them all. She wanted to scream in his face, to ask him what would have happened if she and Sansa had been in Winterfell when they sacked it, if he would have stood by while they were raped by his Ironborn, just like all the other women who'd been there when they came. She did none of those things, and sat patiently, waiting for him to speak. She was not Arya Stark of Winterfell, in this place. She was no-one.

Theon stared into the middle distance for some time.

"My sister thinks I drowned, you know. Now that she's queen of the Ironborn, she's had to find ways to occupy the men – we no longer go reaving, you see. So now our ships sail over the seas, to find new lands beyond the sunset. I asked to be on one of them, I thought I could do that. I thought . . ."

Theon seemed to run out of words. He mouthed a few, silently.

"But it didn't work. I snuck off the ship during a storm – I thought maybe the sea . . . I reached land, through such a storm . . . "

He stared at the small statues of the gods, but his eyes were blank. "I used to think I'd die in battle – some heroic feat, you see. I'd give up my life for someone. I always waded into the thick of the fray, wherever there were most wights, where a White Walker had been seen, thinking that maybe this time. And I won every fight!" Theon shook his head, the look on his scarred face painful.

Theon started, seeming to remember where he was. "It's enough." He looked around him one more time, at each figurine in turn, and mouthed their names one by one. "You have so many gods here."

"All gods are the same god. And his gift is death." Arya finally spoke, wanting Theon to know, to really _understand_ why he was here. He just nodded.

"May I drink from the fountain?"

Arya wordlessly scooped up a cup of the poisoned water, offering it to Theon, who took it without hesitation. He drank, and then leaned back in the chair. His hands had stopped shaking, and were relaxed on his thighs, and his face relaxed too, the lines of pain and exhaustion smoothing out.

"Do you remember the feasts we used to have, at Winterfell?" Theon gave her a sleepy smile, and she couldn't help smiling back at him.

Theon whispered a few more words she couldn't catch, and his eyes fluttered closed. Arya sat next to him, watching his chest rise and fall with each breath, until it fell for the last time. She waited for a few more heartbeats, to be sure, and then got up, stiffly, feeling much older than her years. When she pulled back the curtain to tell Jon he could come out, she saw that he was knuckling away tears. She wondered at herself that she wasn't.

"Can you help me carry him to the next room?" she asked, and he nodded.

"How are you going to manage this on your own?" he asked, as they put Theon on the stone slab in the next room.

"I'll have to get a litter of some kind – don't worry, Jon." She looked up at him, and he nodded, resigned. "Just don't tell Sansa," she added, trying to lighten the atmosphere.

"Of course not," he scoffed. "She doesn't need any of this, not in her cond- oh, gods I'm an idiot." Sansa had clearly insisted that no-one was to know.

Arya smirked. "I already noticed something – but if she wants it to be a secret, it will be."

Jon was already walking away, but then he stopped, turning towards her. "Do you need any more help?" he asked, nodding at Theon's body.

She shook her head. "Thank you, Jon."

He bowed, and walked out. She sighed and smiled. He kept forgetting that people bowed to _him_ , now.

Washing Theon's body was the easiest part of what came next, though his horrific injuries almost turned her stomach. She'd thought all that she'd seen in the past few years had cured her of that. Then came the moment of truth. Could she take his face? _Should_ she take his face? Was that part of the offering she had to make? In the end, she went with what felt right.

When she was done, she turned one of the chairs into a makeshift litter, and managed to drag Theon's body out towards the forest, where she'd prepared a pyre.

Arya had no dreams that night.

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* * *

 **Notes**

* * *

I got the idea for the small wood-carvings of the gods from a Catelyn chapter (in _A Storm of Swords,_ I think) in which she visits a small Sept to pray.

Instead of the usual statues, there are only crude drawings of the Seven - for Catelyn, this ended up being disturbing, more than anything, while for me it was a lightbulb kind of moment. They don't all have to be huge statues! And once I remembered Ser Davos of the excellent wood-carving skills (that little stag he made for Shireen was exquisite): problem solved.

I was going to add something about him not wanting to carve the flaming heart of the Lord of Light, or Arya asking him to do it without realising why it would hurt him. But then it didn't fit in the story as I'd planned it. So, in the background, imagine Arya asking around as to why the thought of learning to read hurts Davos so much, and deciding that she'll pass on R'hllor for the time being.

ETA: thanks to a great suggestion from cathrl on ffn, I decided to put in a candle to represent the Lord of Light!

As we all know, _Valar dohaeris_ means 'all men must serve'.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

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The next few weeks were filled with the kind of supplicants she'd seen in Braavos. There were soldiers who came to pray, and then left, but there were also people, mostly old, who came to drink the waters. Occasionally there was even someone who came to pay her for another's death, but she always found a way to decline, pretending she did not understand the request. Arya felt she had killed so many, for herself, that she was unsure she was still permitted to kill for payment, rather than simply offer the gift.

A day came when she found it hard to pay attention to an old woman, who talked endlessly about her many aches and pains, the family she'd lost, all the suffering she'd been through. The woman's voice droned on and on, her words falling over Arya like water, until she realized the effect was almost hypnotic.

It came to her – this was a trap. She was being lulled into some kind of trance. There was only one person who would do this, who _could_ do this. She licked her lips in apprehension.

Once she showed him she knew who he was, there would be no going back. She cleared her throat, trying to be as silent as possible, and aimed her words at a pause in the woman's list of ailments.

"Are we playing the game of lies?"

Time stood still as the woman's eyes turned icy cold. A pin-prick under Arya's chin alerted her to the woman's knife, which she hadn't even seen her take out. When she spoke, it was still the old woman's voice, but devoid of expression, and her words were all too familiar.

"Who are you?" The question was soft, deceptively harmless.

"No one." Arya knew there was no doubt in her voice, just as she knew she wasn't lying. Now, if only he'd give her a chance to explain.

"If a girl says her name, she will live another day."

"A girl has no name." She could feel the blood trickling down her neck, and dared not swallow nervously, no matter how much she wanted to.

"If a girl says her name, a man will leave and trouble her no longer." It was strange, hearing those words in the old woman's voice. But it had to be him. Who else could it be?

"A girl has no name." Arya knew there was no other answer she could give him.

"Arya Stark lives in the castle. She laughs, she sings, she jokes; she is the lady of Winterfell."

"A girl wears Arya Stark's face in the castle. Here, a girl is no one."

The knife disappeared from under her chin and she could finally swallow.

The woman's features seemed to melt like tallow and rearrange themselves, until she saw the man she'd known as Jaqen H'ghar, but whose name she ultimately did not know. She could have wept as she saw the familiar features appear, but knew she had to keep a rein on her emotions. She'd missed him, though.

He flung off the heavy cloak the 'old woman' had been wearing – underneath it he wore a simple doublet and breeches, with a light sword at his side. Though that was more for appearance's sake than anything else. Arya knew that if the man decided to kill her, she wouldn't even realize until it was over.

The man looked around him, seeing the figures of the gods, the poisoned water, the simple furniture.

"What is the purpose of this?" He sounded curious – as curious as he ever sounded. That is to say, there was a slight inflection to his voice, which only the people who had spent time with him would hear.

Arya cleared her throat, out loud this time, and chose her words with care. It came to her all of a sudden – she wanted to make him proud of her. Was that even possible?

"After leaving Braavos, I stole. From the Many-Faced God." She snuck a look at his face, and his expression hadn't changed. There was a questioning look in his eyes, though.

"I killed for revenge. I killed for reasons of statecraft, though no-one paid me to do so." Which would have solved most of her problems, except neither Jon nor Sansa would have allowed it, even if they'd taken her seriously.

The man nodded. "And now, you find that the god reminds you that he must be repaid. Restoration must be made."

"I haven't taken on any paid work," she added hurriedly. "When people come here, in pain, wanting the gift, I offer them the waters."

"Do you take their faces?" He sounded like he was talking about the latest fashion in Essos, so light was his tone.

"Some of them." In the end, she'd been unable to take Theon's face.

"Show me."

Arya rushed towards the back room, eager, she realized, for his- what? Approval? She swept the thoughts from her mind and carefully unlocked the wooden dresser she'd had made for that purpose. The man looked at them – men and women, young and old. He nodded.

"Are you going to use them?" he asked, his voice deceptively mild.

"I don't think so." Arya chewed her lip, not sure what was the right answer. The truth would have to do. "I just want to return what I took." I want to stop dreaming about butchering my remaining family, she wanted to scream at him, but held back with an effort.

He gave her a sidelong glance. "Is it wise to keep them here?"

She was sure the gratitude showed all over her face, as she shook her head. He produced a large leather sack, and carefully packed the faces in it, murmuring something under his breath as he did. He nodded at her, and turned to walk away, speaking as he did.

"They will be safe in the House of Black and White."

Arya could barely believe it. He was leaving? No, this couldn't be.

"Wait!"

He turned back, to look at her with that same expression of mild interest on his face. Afterwards, she never knew what possessed her, what gave her the strength to do what she did. She rushed towards him and pressed a hard kiss to his lips, and at first, he did not respond. He didn't push her away, either. Just as she was about to give up in despair, she felt an answering pressure from his mouth, and her heart filled with joy. Then his hands fell on her shoulders, and he took a step backwards. In any other man, what followed would have been a sigh.

"A girl knows this cannot be." He didn't sound angry, though. Just wistful, maybe, she thought, and then chastised herself for imagining things.

"But why?" She knew she sounded plaintive, almost like a child, but she couldn't help it.

"A man serves the Many-Faced God. A man will never leave the House of Black and White."

"Is it a penance for you?" she asked, suddenly inspired. "You've been there for so many years, surely whatever you did, you have paid for!"

He raised an eyebrow. "A girl thinks a man is Jaqen H'ghar, but he is dead."

Inside she raged at him, told him that he'd said that twice to her, but she was sure he'd been lying each time. He was better at the game of lies than anyone. Anyway, she didn't care. Arya kept her voice as calm as she could.

"A girl doesn't care what a man calls himself." Gods, this way of speaking was harder than she'd ever imagined. "A girl only knows that she lo – "

Quicker than the eye could follow, his fingers were on her mouth. He shook his head.

"A girl must not speak of such things. These are denied the servants of the Many-Faced God."

She knew he was lying, though. Else why would he have made so many exceptions for her? He'd let her get away with killing the Waif, and he could have killed her where she stood, the last time they'd spoken. He must feel something for her.

She kissed his fingers, and his lips twitched in what could have been a smile. He said nothing, though, and reached in his pocket, producing a familiar iron coin.

"A girl has earned this one," he said, giving it to her. "If you tire of this place, if you feel it is no longer your home, come back to the House of Black and White."

The man turned around and left her standing there, holding the iron coin.

As though his visit had been signalling some kind of ending, the patrons of her small temple slowed down to a trickle, and then, after a few weeks, nothing at all. It took her some more time to come to a decision, but when she did, she felt spurred into action once more.

She drained the huge stone bowl, and rolled it carefully into the back garden, letting it rest in a hole she'd spent most of the morning digging. She reverently placed all the figures of the gods in it, and covered everything with soil, filling the bowl and then the entire hole. She pressed the soil down as best she could, and then scattered some seeds on top. As the weather turned warmer, and the crops flourished, Sansa had been sending for many flower seeds from Highgarden, reasoning that maybe a little soil could be spared for flowers, for some colour and joy in the springtime, if it ever arrived. Arya had secreted away a pinch, in a twist of paper, and now she hoped they would sprout here.

Arya wasn't sure she should tell Sansa that she was leaving – would her sister let her go? Jon was on one of his trips, which saddened her, but it wouldn't keep her at Winterfell either, not even to say goodbye. She wasn't sure where Bran was, either. She'd met him a few times since returning to Winterfell, though fewer than she'd wished for. Even though he'd assured her that he didn't spent all his time entangled in the roots of a Weirwood tree, she found it difficult to talk to him as she once did. Just like Jon, he also had his important voyages, always in the company of Meera Reed, who was sworn to secrecy.

Speculating was pointless. Arya knew she couldn't stay. The man had been right – Winterfell no longer felt like home. The truth was that the change had been in _her._ There was nothing for her in Winterfell anymore, besides an advantageous marriage, and she would never agree to that. She knew that neither Sansa nor Jon would force her into any marriages, even though she was sure members of great Houses old and new had already approached Jon, with a hopeful glint in their eyes.

What else could she do? No-one was going to sword-fight with her, or train her, or let her train anyone else. She was sure that Jon would spar with her, if she asked, but water-dancing was very different from how Jon used Longclaw. Besides, he would be too terrified of hurting her to give her a real fight. The only other skill she had was killing. Oh, and I bake an exceptional pie, she thought, with a smirk she tried very hard to suppress. See, those are the kinds of thoughts I shouldn't be having anymore, she scolded herself.

She decided she'd spend the night deciding what to take with her, and would slip away early in the morning. Her plan hadn't included spending hours trying to write a farewell letter to Sansa and Jon, though.

That was how Sansa found her – up to her elbows in ink, a blotted and criss-crossed sheet of paper in front of her.

"Arya, are you ill?" Sansa then took in the entire scene – the fact that Arya was fully dressed, and that there was a travelling pouch next to her on the bed. Her face fell. "You're leaving."

Arya sprang up and grabbed her sister's hands. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you; I'm so sorry, Sansa."

Sansa's arms enveloped her and squeezed her so tight she could hardly breathe. "Where will you go?"

"I've always wanted to see what's west of Westeros," Arya said, blinking hard to keep the tears from falling. She shrugged, trying to indicate that she wanted to see more of the world than Winterfell, that it just wasn't enough for her anymore.

"It's so strange." Sansa sighed, once again sitting with a hand on her (really very small) belly, unconscious of the picture she presented. "I used to want to get as far away from here as possible, when we were children. And now, this is all I want. And Jon."

Arya nodded. "All I wanted to do was get back to Winterfell – I tried so hard, Sansa. And now that I'm back . . . "

She couldn't hold the tears in any longer, and sobbed into Sansa's shoulder as her sister patted her back, and made soothing noises. Sansa was going to make a wonderful mother, Arya thought. She sniffed and pulled back, wiping her eyes roughly, and gave her sister a watery smile.

"When were you going to tell me about the baby?"

Sansa narrowed her eyes, lips thinning. "Did _Jon_ tell you?" Oh, that was the old Sansa, who was going to make Jon pay for this when he returned.

"Sansa, I have eyes!" Arya watched, dazzled, as a smile blossomed like a flower on Sansa's face.

"Oh, Arya. We're so happy! I just wish you could be as happy as us." She blushed, lost in a memory, it looked like, and then she lowered her eyes, and looked at Arya through her lashes. "You must think me very scandalous and improper."

Arya shrugged. She would have told Sansa that she'd seen worse on her travels, if she didn't know that would make Sansa feel worse.

"Jon was always a great friend and brother to me, Sansa. Now he's my good-brother, and you couldn't have chosen a better man, I swear."

Sansa's face shone like a light, and Arya could only gaze at her, dazzled once more. She really loves him, Arya thought. And he loves her more than life.

"You know you always have a home here, Arya. Promise me that you'll come back if you run out of places to explore." Sansa squeezed Arya's hand, almost painfully. "Promise me," she repeated, her voice turning stern.

"I promise," Arya told her, laughing. She threw her arms around Sansa, squeezing her as tight as she dared. Then she put the sack over her shoulder and set off, though not before being persuaded, by her sister, to take one of their horses. Sansa was right, she could always sell it if she couldn't take it any further.

It took Arya longer than she'd expected, but, a few weeks later, she'd crested the ridge leading down to Saltpans, and she took a deep breath of the fresh, salty smell. She'd ended up selling her horse for less than she'd expected, but it didn't matter that much. Sansa must have learned many skills besides dissembling in her time away, because Arya had found more silver coins in her bag than she had packed herself.

Still, she only needed one coin to get to Braavos, which would be her first stop. Looking at the ships anchored there, she could see that one of them was Braavosi – not the _Titan's Daughter,_ but it would do.

For she was determined – she _would_ go to the House of Black and White, but not to stay there. She would wait for the man who had once called himself Jaqen H'ghar, and she would ask him to join her on her travels. She'd be his, if he wanted to be hers. She would wait, but she wouldn't wait forever. She was Arya Stark, late of Winterfell. She was no-one. And she would sail beyond the sunset, alone, or with him.

* * *

oOo

* * *

 **Notes** :

So, this is a weird little story that wouldn't leave me alone, especially when I watched Arya, um, _deal_ with Walder Frey in the Season 6 finale.

The shot seemed to hold on her ecstatic face for a little too long. So I thought, what if she can't be only Arya Stark anymore? What happens when no-one else needs killing?


End file.
